


get off the ledge and drop the knife (not a victim of a victim's life)

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, But Steve's Kid And Not Bucky's Or Clint's, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Deaf Clint Barton, I'm Sorry, Kid Fic, M/M, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Rating May Change, Tattoos, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, may or may not be completed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 14:30:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18918907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: In which a tired tattoo artist named Clint Barton teaches a small child bad words, tries to forget-slash-avoid his criminal past, and may or may not have a thing for Steve's friend, who is mildly terrifying but in the hot kind of way.





	get off the ledge and drop the knife (not a victim of a victim's life)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm having some issues with actually finishing anything- I have a few drafts I'm really proud of but I keep getting stuck about halfway and I'm hoping if I publish the first half of this it'll jumpstart me into completing my drafts. And also the second half.

“Clint,” Natasha said reproachfully.  
  
“What, it’s a masterpiece,” Clint answered breezily, looking down at his sketchpad. The coffee-stained paper currently depicted a pencil drawing of a contortionist bending herself into a pretzel. Her exposed breasts are pointing at the top of the page and her ribbon-laced palms are grazing the edge of the paper, and her face may or may not be melting away to reveal a dripping eye socket and bone. So what, he likes a bit of horror with his sexy. It’s fun. He finishes the delicate shading on the curve of her thighs and turns to look at Natasha properly, where she’s standing behind his desk with her arms folded over her chest.  
  
She gives him a long-suffering look and inclines her head slightly towards the little blonde child kicking her feet happily, perched on a stool. Right. They were babysitting Steve next door’s kid again. Amelia gives him a gap-toothed grin and he winks back, subtly sliding the sketchbook’s pages to a cartoonish unicorn he’d drawn the day before. Steve Rogers is a busy man, and normally it’d be very strange to leave your kid in a tattoo store being babysat by two reformed criminals, but for some reason he trusted them. It had been more of a common thing now- Steve didn’t tell them what was going on, but between the gym he ran and something to do with his time serving in the army, he was a busy, busy man.  
  
And Natasha seemed to have a soft spot for him, and Clint fucking loved kids even if he wasn’t particularly child-friendly, so they kept Amelia for Steve.  
  
“We got any customers today?”  
  
Natasha sighed. “We have Phil coming back in an hour, and Tony wanted something to add onto his back for this afternoon.”  
  
“More circuitry? I think I have some patterns,” he replied, flicking to the notebook he kept exclusively for Tony Stark, who for some reason loved their crappy little studio.  
  
“Good,” she added. “I can’t deal with all his talking right now.”  
  
Clint snorted and got up to rummage through his drawers. He comes out with a slightly crumpled Mars Bar, which he hands to Amelia. She snatches it away and it disappears almost immediately down her throat. Technically he’s supposed to be giving her healthy food, but he can only imagine what it’s like to be stuck with a health nut, gym-owner for a single dad and the kid deserves some chocolate every now and then. Natasha gives him a disapproving look but he ignores it, waving at Phil as he comes in, with a bag that promises goodies.  
  
“I saw Steve on the way in,” he says in lieu of greeting, handing the bag of food to Natasha. She holds it so it’s out of the way of Clint’s grabbing hands, taking it to the coffee table they keep in the back. He wants his cream donut, but he’s curious about what’s going on with Steve so he sits back in his chair and catches Amelia when she launches herself at him.  
  
“He’s got a friend. Dark haired, looked upset,” Phil added.  
  
Clint fiddles with Amelia’s hair, twisting the left side into three sections so he could begin to braid it. “Were they cute?”  
  
“Clint,” Natasha said as she returned, sounding exasperated.  
  
“Are they?” Clint persisted. Phil looks tired but amused by his antics, but he's also not giving Clint any more information. He turns his attention to an easier target. “Hey, ‘melia, who’s Daddy’s new friend?”  
  
“That’s Bucky,” Amelia replied distantly.  
  
“What the hell kind of a name is Bucky?”  
  
“Dunno.”  
  
“Anyway,” Phil said tiredly, “I have to go see Mrs Van Dyne about the vandals that are terrorizing her pet store. The wasps were released again. Although what sort of pet store keeps wasps, I do not know.”  
  
With that he turned and left and Clint wondered how Phil Coulson kept the entire street in business when they were all useless, weird idiots. It was probably Tony’s money. It was _definitely_  Tony’s money. He finished the braids in Amelia’s hair and let her go when she wriggled off of his lap and ran to Natasha, showing it off. Clint leaned back and watched them, thumbing at the slightly raised skin of the wingtip curling around his hand. They spread all the way from his shoulder blades down to his wrists, simple curving black lines looping around and around. Not technically anatomically correct, but he liked them. They’d been a gift from Natasha when he’d invited her to join him in the shop, and he wore them with smug pride. He had more ink; a few arrows on his collarbones, the silhouettes of trapeze artists on his thighs, but the wings were his pride and joy.  
  
And Natasha, of course, although adopting a Russian convict wouldn’t sound like a good thing to anyone but him. He smirked at her, elegant and perfect, and she rolled her eyes back at him, kneeling down in front of a chair so Amelia could play with her ringlets, pulled up in an elegant updo. Yeah, they were great. He was pretty proud of the hourglasses on her slender neck, a spider hanging from one, which she’d gotten when they’d opened the shop for the first day. Clint snorted as Amelia yanked a little too hard on Natasha’s hair and the redhead’s eyes narrowed slightly. Yep, definitely wasn’t any chance of little Romanovs or Bartons running around the shop when they could barely handle a tiny Rogers.  
  
Then again, he’s pretty sure the Rogers bloodline is one of a kind. The bell dinged and in came Steve in all his blond bombshell glory, looking frazzled and worn-out. There was a leaf in his hair, too, and Clint snickered loudly before he could stop himself. Steve didn’t seem to notice or care, a brown paper bag in one hand.  
  
"Hi, Daddy,” Amelia greeted, still playing with Natasha’s hair.  
  
Steve offered her a smile and set her lunch on Natasha’s desk. “Hey, sweetheart. Having fun?”  
  
“Clint drew Lucky for me,” she answered cheerfully, tugging on Natasha’s hair and getting a fullbody cringe from Clint.  
  
“Good, good,” Steve agreed before turning around to him. He looked concerned.  
  
“What’s up, Captain Rogers?”  
  
Steve bit his lip. “I know I said I’d pick her up at five, but would you mind keeping her for a few more hours? It’s okay if you can’t, I just-“  
  
“Hey, no, it’s fine,” Clint reassured. “Nat’s got a date tonight, but I’m here until ten. We can order a pizza or something.”  
  
“No mushrooms,” Amelia chimed in.  
  
“Mushrooms are healthy,” Steve argued before turning back to Clint, looking apologetic. “My best friend’s just come back from- from a holiday, and he’s still getting used to the city.”  
  
Clint traded a look with Natasha, because they were basically human lie detectors at this point and there was no way _holiday_  meant what normal people defined it as. There was something more to this, something he wasn’t saying. Maybe it was like their Budapest. Still, he wasn’t going to interrogate Steve about it. They’d find out sooner or later, it was just a manner of patience. And no one had told him whether this ‘Bucky’ character was someone who he’d be interested in.  
  
“It’s all good,” he answered with a dual thumbs up. “We’ll turn on the TV in the back room, watch some Dog Cops.”  
  
Steve looked relieved, pushed a hand through his hair. “Thank you, Clint. Really.”  
  
“It’s not like it’s a hardship,” Clint reasoned. ”She’s entertaining, and I don’t have to explain complicated things like why the American public voted for their current President. More interested in dogs and the concept of wizardry. She's a good kid. ”  
  
Steve snorts at that, the stress in his brow easing just slightly. _He worries too much_ , Clint thought briefly. Of course, a lot of people on this block were like that, and the rest (see: Clint Barton) were people who didn’t worry at all, which people like Steve would say is worse. It was a matter of opinion. Steve nodded to him in thanks, and then he was kissing Amelia’s brow and leaving in more or less the same manner he’d arrived in; a messy rush. Clint wondered if he’d hired someone else to run the gym or whether he and this _Bucky_ guy were going to be in there together.  
  
“Hey, ‘melia. Want to help me design some tats?”  
  
  
**  
  
  
  
“Alright,” Clint said, holding his hands up and watching as Amelia mirrored him excitedly. “You can’t ever tell your Dad I’m teaching you this, okay?”  
  
“I promise,” she swore with a solemn look.  
  
“Okay, so, first you make the horns- the devil horns, you remember? Yeah, perfect. And then you slide them like this, then take your other hand and- yep. By your other elbow, then go open, shut, open, that’s it. Perfect.”  
  
Amelia continues signing gleefully, her cheeks dimpling with amusement. Clint snorts and drops his hands into his lap, glancing at the clock. Nine at night and he’s teaching a kid how to swear in ASL. Steve would kill him if he knew, but he’s not here and the kid needs a little fun in her life. Being homeschooled probably doesn’t have the same kind of culture actually going to classes and interacting with other kids her age did, so Clint had to teach her about all this stuff, like swearing and what shows were popular and what music was awesome and what music sucked.   
  
“Bullshit,” she chirped, signing it again.  
  
“Shh,” Clint stage-whispered, as the door made a happy jingle. “It’s a secret between you and me.”  
  
“Okay,” she whispered back, sliding into his arms for a hug. That’d be Steve coming to pick her up, hopefully- he wasn’t taking any night appointments ever again after the last mess with the drunk girl and her boyfriend. He’d managed to bribe them with free laser removal, but it was a mess he wasn’t ready to jump into again. It didn't matter that he hadn't known they were drunk, that was his bad. Clint leaned over to switch the paused television off, lifting Amelia up and carrying her into the front room. She hung off of him happily, and he wondered when her bedtime usually was. Knowing Steve, it was probably six thirty or something ridiculous like that. He twirled around in the doorway, and Amelia squealed happily, and then he froze as he nearly bumped into a hooded figure lurking there.  
  
Clint squawked and jumped back into Steve, who steadied him with one large hand on his waist. The figure didn’t flinch, didn’t react much at all and he caught a glimpse of greasy, dark hair and a pale face. A ghost? Probably not, because Steve didn’t seem particularly frightened by it. Clint eyed it off suspiciously while he handed off Amelia to Steve, realising he’d left all his weapons in the other room. Shit. Although Steve might not’ve appreciated him throwing a knife at intruders in front of a kid.  
  
“This is Bucky,” Steve introduced proudly, with a wave at the looming dark shape. “My best friend.”  
  
Clint squinted, ready to ask if Steve was a hundred percent sure his friend was human and not a vampire of some sort, and it- _he_ , grunted something that might have been a greeting. Steve made an indignant huffing noise that had Clint standing a little straighter but didn’t affect the person it had actually been directed at.  
  
“Hi?” Clint said, but it was more tentative than he’d meant it to be. “Do you normally scare people half out of their skin when you meet them?”  
  
He gets a snort for that comment, which he hadn’t actually meant to say out loud. Well, at least he had a sense of humour. Then a scarred right hand is pulled out of a hoodie pocket and the hood is pushed off his head, and _oh no I was right, he is hot _.__ Steve’s friend Bucky is indeed, very pretty in a way someone that big shouldn’t be, with dark hair pulled back in a messy, short ponytail and a sharp jawline Clint has the sudden inappropriate urge to lick. His eyes are the thing Clint’s really drawn to, though, icy sharp and skittering up to meet Clint’s gaze, then away again. They’re not the same blue as Clint’s or Steve’s, brighter, almost silver when he lifts his chin and they catch the light.  
  
“Hey,” Bucky said, quiet.  
  
“Hi,” Clint repeated, a little mesmerised now he’s not about to piss himself from fright.  
  
They stare at each other for a long, long moment until Amelia starts wriggling in Steve’s grip, muttering something about pizza sauce and Sergeant Whiskers. Then Bucky looks away quickly, tucking his hand back into his pocket and slouching a little. Steve disappears into the back room to grab Amelia’s stuff that she’d brought, leaving Clint to lean against a wall awkwardly. There’s a long beat of silence in which he tries not to say anything horrifically embarrassing, although to be fair he’s said many embarrassing things to Steve that have probably been passed on already.  
  
“Artist, huh?” Bucky said, looking past him to the display wall.  
  
It’s some of Clint’s nicer stuff, delicate coloured floral pieces and boats with tattered sails, all the stuff he’s actually allowed to display with kids coming and going. There’s one framed photo of Tony’s back, too, all the circuitry and steel panelling he’d spent hours on and that he’d taken a million pictures of. He loves his skulls and blood and sex, but Natasha says it’s not allowed up on the front walls. Natasha’s pieces are up on the opposite wall, roses and dancers and stuff that has a sort of delicate but scary vibe to it, much like Natasha herself, but Bucky isn’t looking at that stuff.  
  
“When I’m not raising your friend’s kid or doing things that are morally questionable and possibly illegal, yes, I’m an artist,” Clint replied without thinking, and then winced.  
  
“If she’s anything like Steve, I imagine watching her is the hard part of that sentence,” Bucky answered, seemingly unaffected by Clint’s admission. “I spent most of my childhood keepin’ him out of trouble.”  
  
“She’s a handful, but she’s fun,” he agreed.  
  
“Yeah.” Bucky snorted. “Tell Steve I’ll be outside.”  
  
Clint watched as he pushed off the wall and headed out the door, pulling the hood over his head again. His walk was fluid, almost silent despite the clunky boots on his feet. Curious. It was almost like the walk of a predator, he thought distantly. Then Bucky was outside, invisible in the darkness of the night, and Clint was cringing at the blast of frigid air the open door let in. He turned when Amelia muttered something under her breath about leftover pizza, and found Steve watching the front door with something both amused and sad in his eyes. He looked older than Clint in that moment, like he’d seen a century go by instead of a measly twenty three years, and Clint wondered what was going on with him and his friend.  
  
“That’s the most he’s said to anyone but me since he got home,” Steve said distantly.  
  
“Oh.” What was he supposed to say to that? “Must be my unrivalled wit and unique charm?”  
  
Steve laughed, settled his daughter higher on his hip. He had grabbed her overstuffed red backpack as well, had it hanging off his other side, and it was strange, to think that Clint had become part of this strange, mismatched family. He wondered if Bucky would become a permanent fixture in their lives the same way Amelia had become. Remembering the alert, curious spark in Bucky’s eyes when he’d studied the art on the walls, Clint certainly hoped so.  
  
“It’s good. You’re good,” Steve said, and Clint shuffled awkwardly away as he started heading for the door. “Thanks, Clint. See you tomorrow?”  
  
“Sure thing, man.”  
  
  
**

 

“So what’s his story?”  
  
“Don’t know yet,” Clint answered, adjusting Carol’s muscled bicep to check the design’s fit. She was listening to music, something loud and rumbling that even with his old, worn-out aids he could hear it. How she wasn’t as deaf as he was, was a mystery. Still, it made it easier to gossip with Natasha while she uploaded pictures of their latest canvases to Instagram. She raised one perfect eyebrow in mild curiosity but continued tapping away at her phone while she waited for him to elaborate. He turned away from Carol to trade the sketch for the stencil, applying it firmly.  
  
“I only met him for like, five minutes, Nat. I didn’t have time to probe him for his life story.”  
  
“You know,” Natasha said, raising her eyes to meet Clint’s briefly, “he served in the Army before he showed up here.”  
  
“Did you- have you been stealing information again?”  
  
Natasha lifts one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug.  
  
“I don’t want to know,” Clint replied decisively, peeling the backing off of the stencil to reveal the clean, violet lines coalescing into a row of stars. “I don’t, ‘Tasha, I’ll let him tell me himself. If he even wants to. Like I said, five minutes.”  
  
“Steve’s probably told him all about you,” she reasoned.  
  
“That’s fine. I’m an open book,” he said with amusement, sitting down on his stool and adjusting the foot pedal so it was in easy reach.  
  
“Even the bad things?”  
  
“Even the bad things,” he agreed, even through the weight in his stomach at the thought of the things he’d done Steve _didn’t_  know about, that no one but Natasha knew. “I already spilled the beans about the whole criminal-for-hire thing. Sort of.”  
  
Natasha scratches idly at the rose inked on her elbow, looking unimpressed. It’s nowhere near the dumbest thing he’s done- not this year, the year of _please get me out of the dumpster, Tasha, my knees have stopped working and I’m very drunk_. “Of course you did.”  
  
“Hey, I’ve got no shame or dignity, I can do what I like,” he argued, loading the needle with the crimson red ink on his bench.  
  
He heard her sigh rather than saw it, and snorted back appropriately. There was a shout from outside, and Clint lifted up in his chair to see Doreen running down the street wildly, a jar of something unknown in her hands, furry ears and tail clipped on firmly. It was kind of comforting, knowing they were all complete weirdos around here. Natasha didn’t even blink when a swarm of angry teens followed, upturning the potted fern outside their studio. It had been knocked over more times than Clint could count and it still lived on, so neither of them moved to pick it up. Clint turned back to Carol and started carefully lining the edge of one of the larger stars.  
  
“He’s… interesting,” Clint admitted as he wiped at some excess ink.  
  
“Interesting,” Natasha repeated, with the smirk evident in her voice.  
  
He resisted the urge to sigh at her, because he barely knew the man, had only seen him once, and now Natasha was going to go on and on about him because she knew Clint had a _thing_  for snarky people with dark, unfortunate pasts. She shouldn’t be allowed to read him so well. It wasn’t so much that he had a fetish for them and more that he just seemed to collect them unthinkingly, which was why he currently had the Maximoff twins staying in the apartment below his. He hadn’t seen them recently, come to think of it- Pietro had joined a few local sports teams- the kid ran way too much, it made him feel old- and Wanda was doing something she wouldn’t divulge at Stark Industries. But he hadn’t actually hit on any of them- Natasha, or Pietro, or Wanda, and he certainly wasn’t going to hit on Bucky if the guy was still trying to find his feet in this city. Or at all, because even if Bucky was interested in tattooed idiots with an unfortunate habit of thievery there was still the threat of Steve strangling him in a protective rage. Steve could probably crush Clint with those heavily muscled thighs alone, without even breaking a sweat. Hot and terrifying.  
  
“I invited them for dinner,” Natasha commented. “They declined.”  
  
“He hasn’t even met you, and Steve’s busy as hell. Of course they said no,” Clint reasoned, inking another careful red line.  
  
“I suppose,” she agreed.  
  
Clint wiped at Carol’s pale skin and bit at his lip, trying to concentrate on what he was doing. The problem was, he’d been doing this for years now and his fingers had memorized the easy flow of the machine, the rhythm of ink, wipe, ink, so it left his mind with nothing to do except stare blankly. Carol opened her eyes briefly and smiled at him, and he returned it before she went back to dozing. And that was pretty metal, in and of itself- everyone, even Clint, winced a little at being inked, but Carol didn’t even blink. There were too many badass women in the area. They’d make him ashamed, if he bought into that masculinity bullshit Shuri had read him once while he was tattooing her brother.  
  
The bell at the door chimed happily, and Amelia was bouncing into the studio, running over to Natasha once she realised Clint was busy. He kept going with the tattoo, offering a wave with one gloved hand at her when he went to get a new piece of paper towel. He was expecting Steve, or no one at all- Amelia was prone to running about the street by herself at times, and it was lucky they were a big family here or it’d be dangerous. What he wasn’t expecting was Bucky, hands in the pockets of his hoodie again, shadows under his eyes.  
  
“Hey,” Clint greeted, and Bucky turned towards him. He was only watching out of the corner of his eye, still inking away, so he couldn’t see if there was any facial reaction.  
  
“She wanted to go for a walk. Gym’s boring,” Bucky offered in explanation, coming closer.  
  
Usually Clint _hated_  people watching him tattoo; it wasn’t quite as bad as someone hovering while he sketched, but it was still unbelievably annoying. But Bucky stayed about a foot away, just quietly observing the process, and it didn’t feel as critical as he expected it to. He finished the star he was working on and began switching over to the dark blue ink he’d picked out earlier for the underside of the tattoo, and Bucky’s head tilted in interest. He faintly noticed Natasha taking Amelia to the back to get icecream, but Carol had an appointment in half an hour and he’d promised to finish the outlining by then. Bucky didn’t say anything, and when Clint had looked at him he’d looked _tired_ , in that emotionally walled-off way, so he didn’t say anything either, just kept inking steady lines.  
  
When he finished and began to wrap it, Bucky stepped back silently and went over to the display. Carol turned off her music and raised an eyebrow at them both, but let Clint hand her the cream without complaint, tucking her earbuds into her cleavage.  
  
“I don’t need my usual aftercare speech, do I?” He asked, and Carol snorted at him.  
  
“I’m fine, thanks, Barton.” She gestured at the flames swathed along the skin of her thighs, just below her denim shorts. “Think I’ve got it down by now.”  
  
“Fair enough,” he replied easily, and she pulled out a wad of bills and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. He stood up to wave to her as she left, balling up his used paper towel and tossing it into the bin behind the plant, bouncing it off the wall. As he was peeling off his gloves he remembered that there was another person in the room and twisted to see Bucky, who was staring at a piece in the corner with a thousand-mile stare reminiscent of some of the guys Clint had met in jail. The ones who’d been really fucked up. He wasn’t even sure Bucky was in the studio in his mind, or whether he was somewhere else, in a memory.  
  
Something felt soft and heavy all the same in his chest though, so he approached quietly and stood next to Bucky. It was one of his earlier pieces, all scratched, heavy lead and the emptiness of a prison cell. They’d kept it because Natasha believed in acknowledging their pasts, and on the opposite wall there was a portrait of a young man who had lost his life to the cause she’d been recruited for. Clint thumbed at the smoke patterned on his trigger finger and wondered what Bucky saw when he looked at all this.  
  
Amelia squealed in the backroom and Bucky blinked like whatever he’d been thinking about had slipped away, quick as that. Clint shifted back on his heels and wondered if he got overheated in all that hoodie. He was only in a black vest himself, no shirt underneath- Natasha absolutely __hated__ it, but it was comfortable. Anyway, she wasn’t the boss of him. Most of the time.  
  
“You got any ink?”  
  
“Naw,” Bucky answered. “Wanted to. Never got around to it.”  
  
“You’re what, twenty-five? Plenty of time to get to it now,” Clint replied with a shrug.  
  
“I guess,” he said noncommittally. “You ever do any other stuff besides tattooing?”  
  
“What, like work? Or like, different kinds of art?” Bucky nodded when he said that, and Clint bit his lip thoughtfully. “I’ve done a bit of everything, I guess.”  
  
“Engraving?”  
  
“Like wood, or…?”  
  
“Metal.”  
  
“Er… yes? I did our nameplates over there. It was cool,” Clint said, gesturing at the neat scrawl on the wall. Bucky’s eyebrows raised a little in interest. “Any particular reason you’re asking?”  
  
Silver-blue eyes met his, and then flickered away as Natasha came through, rifling in her drawers for the Japanese candy she kept specifically for bribes. She pulled out an obnoxiously pink package and went back to the back room, ignoring them both. Clint shrugged at Bucky when she disappeared. You couldn’t really expect anything else from Natasha where that kid was involved; she had a one-track mind. Clint thought maybe it might have something to do with the fact her own childhood hadn’t been much fun. His hadn’t been either, not really, but he didn’t dote on the kid the way Natasha did. He didn’t understand her motives, but he wasn’t going to stop her.  
  
Clint glanced back at Bucky just as he tucked his left arm back in his hoodie pocket. He thought he’d seen a flash of silver- a bracelet, maybe? He hadn’t pegged the guy for the jewelry type, but that was interesting. It made him miss the ring he’d had in his nose in high school a little bit. But piercings weren’t practical, anyway. Clint linked his hands behind his head and stretched, noting slyly that Bucky’s gaze flickered down to where his vest rode up a little. Interesting. There might just be something there, if he’s lucky. He’s still not sure what Bucky wants him to engrave, though.  
  
“Bucky,” Amelia sung out, running up to them. “I wanna go to the ice cream store!”  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Bucky agreed, giving Clint a vaguely embarrassed look. Maybe there was a human being in there somewhere after all. “I- see you around?”  
  
“I’m always here,” Clint replied breezily. “I never leave. I’m secretly a ghost and my spirit is trapped here, unable to pass onto the next world. Help me.”  
  
Bucky snorted at him, which wasn’t really the reaction he was expecting but it’s amusing nonetheless. Amelia began tugging him backwards towards the door impatiently, the prospect of ice cream far more interesting than two middle-aged tattoo artists with an unending supply of candy. Clint didn’t move to help, simply offered a wave of goodbye. Natasha leaned against the doorframe and waved as well, and then she turned her intent stare onto him.  
  
“Interesting.”  
  
“ _Interesting_ , my ass,” Clint argued. “I didn’t do anything!”  
  
“You don’t have to,” Natasha answered dryly. “The look on your face says everything.”  
  
He then throws an empty soda can at her. She catches it one-handed, of course, but it’s more to express his displeasure more than anything else.


End file.
